


For SCIENCE!

by VelvetMace



Category: Portal (Video Game), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Affably evil characters, Aperture Science, Crossover, Dark!humor, Doing what they must because they can, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Experiments, Prerecorded!Cave Johnson, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/pseuds/VelvetMace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cave Johnson is throwing science at the wall to see what sticks, Sherlock is one of his lab boys, and John is a homeless man they picked up on a park bench.  <i>""If you climb in the back of an unmarked van expecting a free lunch at the end of the ride, you get what you deserve, son."</i></p><p> Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=44755084#t44755084">this prompt</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	For SCIENCE!

Sherlock knocked on the door of the observation room, then let himself in. The startled tech looked up. “Dr. Holmes!”

He smiled. “It’s all right Kenny. I’ll take over this experiment. Go take a break.”

Kenny nodded. “Here’s the file. They should have him prepped any minute.” He handed over a manila folder. Sherlock took it, flipped it open and read the name scrawled hastily in pen on the xeroxed form. John Watson. Current residence: N/A. Sherlock crossed that off and wrote in 221 B Baker Street. There. Better.

Through the tilted windows he looked at the isolation room below. It was ten by ten by twenty feet tall and blindingly white. The floors and walls for the first twelve feet were covered in a tough spongy material. Other than the flood lights and cameras set up in each corner, the air vent and the observation window high above, there was nothing at all in the room.

A door opened up in the middle of the wall opposite. In staggered John Watson. Mid-thirties, ex military vet. His skin was scrubbed pink and his face shaved. Someone had run a set of clippers over his hair as well. The man held a hand behind his back to keep his hospital gown closed, as he looked around bewilderedly. He peered against the spotlight’s glare at the observation window, but Sherlock was certain he couldn’t see past the reflections on the glass.

The door shut behind the subject. He spun around and ran his hand over it, feeling for some sort of grip to open it again, but there was nothing, at least not on this side. “Hey!” he cried out. “Hey! What’s going on here! Who are you people!”

Sherlock pressed a button on the console.

“Hello there!” boomed a voice. It had a slightly tinny quality that comes from a tannoy system. The accent was American Midwest and there was an ingratiating joviality that clashed with the circumstances.

“Hello!” John called back up at the ceiling. “I th—“

There was a slight crackle then the voice continued. “This is Cave Johnson speaking. I’d like to thank you for volunteering to help science go forward. It’s brave men and women like you doing all that you can do that make it possible for Aperture Science to be all it can be. If you have any questions, just go ahead, don’t be shy. Ask away.”

“Yes!” said John. “I have a question! How do I get out of here? I didn’t volun—“

Cave Johnson chuckled tinnily. “Just kidding. This is a prerecorded message. But it’s connected to an AI — that’s artificial intelligence for you laymen — with a voice activation circuit and a branching code to respond to key words you say. The answer to your question is —“ there was a pause and another obviously mechanical voice broke in “Your question has not been programmed into this database, try another.” Then Cave Johnson came back. “Hope that cleared things up for you!”

“No,” said John. “No it didn’t. Listen. I was told that I’d be going to a soup kitchen —“

“Now, I’ve heard a rumour from the Lab Boys that someone might be going around recruiting homeless men by telling them that they were headed to a soup kitchen. Rascals,” Cave Johnson chuckled again. “My response is, if you climb in the back of an unmarked van expecting a free lunch at the end of the ride, you get what you deserve, son.” 

“This is kidnapping!” said John. “You’ve kidnapped me!”

“Don’t worry, at the end of the test there will be coffee and donuts by the exit. If you are still hungry you can help yourself. You can also help yourself to a cool £30. That’s money — not weight, we don’t have that many donuts. And I tell you, when you bite down into that sweet, flakey goodness, you know you’ll have earned every bite with the sweat of your brow, like a real man. It’ll taste a thousand times better than the dusty, unsatisfying flavour of charity.”

“I don’t want your donuts,” said John. “I want to go. At least tell me what happened to my clothes.”

The Tannoy squealed slightly. “And some of you might be asking why it is we had you all stripped and scrubbed down in the decontamination showers like you were exposed to radiation from dirty bomb that may have been accidentally set off in the park you were sleeping in.”

“What!?”

“That’s a joke, in case you were wondering. Dirty bombs are too expensive to waste on the homeless. No we just washed you down because, frankly, you smelled pretty ripe. The hospital gown is yours to keep by the way. Consider it a freebee.”

“I — “

Sherlock pressed another button.

“Now, I’d love to go on answering your questions until the sun comes down, but time is money and these sterile testing chambers don’t come cheap. So how about I go ahead and orient you to the experiment we have planned for today.”

“Oh,” said John. “Okay.”

“The boys in the Lab have cooked up a fun one this time. I’ve been told there’s a 100% chance of survival for this, so count yourself as lucky. The lizard man experiment before you didn’t do quite as well, and well, let’s just say, it gave our turrets some good target practice. So you can’t say there wasn’t a silver lining. 

“But back to you. Apparently the U. S. Military wants to make itself something called a “gay bomb”. For those of you who have IQ’s lower than 80 that’s a bomb that makes you gay. Like it says on the tin, really. Well, we didn’t pick you up for your smarts.”

“What?! No! I don’t volunteer. I don’t want to be gay.”

“It’s supposed to demoralise the enemy. I don’t know, doesn’t make any sense to me either. But you know what does make sense? The 65 million dollars the Military is paying for Aperture Science to build the device. Hell, I’d build this puppy for half that amount. And that’s where you come in.”

John fought to get out of the room again, clawing his fingers into the crack left by the door. Sherlock let out a chuckle.

Cave Johnson went on relentlessly, “There’s a ten percent chance, statistically speaking, that you are already gay. In which case you’ve just got yourself some free money and hell of a good time on our dime. For the rest of you, we aren’t actually sure how long it takes for the effects to wear off. We suggest you look each other over on your way out the door. You might just find someone special.”

“No, this isn’t fair! I’m not volunteering for this! Let me out!”

“For those of you who are too chicken to advance the cause of science, the ladies down in Legal say we have to give you an opportunity to leave. But I have to say, if you do, you are the sorriest bunch of pansies I ever laid my eyes on. You make me sick. Good men go to war and die every day, they fought brave and proud, but you are all ‘I don’t want to be gay for my country!’ You don’t deserve to be spoken of in the same breath as those heroes. You don’t deserve to even look at a memorial for the heroes. You don’t deserve to come within a thousand feet of them. You should be ashamed of yourself, you miserable yellow coward.

“You don’t get any £30, either. And you better not take a donut. Those donuts are for real men, not whimpering crybabies like you losers. Anyway, if you wish to exercise your option to be a complete gutless waste of space, you have up to the test commences to say: “I, your name, choose not to be involved in testing at this time.”

“I, John Watson, refuse to be involved in testing at this time,” rattled off John. He pushed at the door, although it opened inwards.

There was a click. Cave Johnson's voice spoke up gleefully. “I’m afraid it’s a bit late to change your mind, volunteer. I’ve just been informed they started pumping the gas into your chamber 45 seconds ago. Well, no harm, no foul. We’ll just keep your moment of weakness to ourselves, shall we.”

John put his hands over his face and obviously tried to stop himself from breathing.

“Since you all aren’t the sharpest crayons in the box, I’ll remind you that holding your breath will cause you to eventually pass out and breathe in the gas anyway. You might as well go ahead and take deep breaths. Suck that stuff down.”

John pounded at the door futilely a few times then slid down in a huddle against it. Sherlock noted his chest heave, glanced at the time, and marked it down in the file. He set the timer for five minutes and then stepped out to get himself some coffee. 

When he returned there was a minute left on the timer. John had moved from the door to the corner of the room and was glaring up at the observation window. His face was sheened with sweat, and though his knees were tucked up, and his hands holding down the hem of the hospital gown, Sherlock could see just a bit of tenting going on.

Sipping his coffee he reached over and pressed a button again.

“By now you should be feeling the effects of the gas,” said Cave Johnson’s loud, jovial voice. “Makes you feel a bit warm and tingly doesn’t it. Lab boys say it has as short term aphrodisiac effect. Perhaps with some alterations we can market it to the impotent crowd — once we figure out how to get rid of the long term gay effects. Some men might find that part off-putting.”

John seemed to have gone quiet, because he simply turned his head away and looked at a wall.

In the observation booth, the timer went off. Sherlock put his coffee down and ran his hands over the controls, turning the fans around, pumping fresh air into the room and evacuating the gas out of it. The breeze made John’s gown flap a bit against his calf. He looked up at the ceiling once more.

“For this next part you’ll need a partner. It’s a bit tricky to find men who would volunteer to service you volunteers, but it would be pretty hard to tell if the gas worked if we didn’t. Lets face it, you aren’t exactly supermodels. So in the interest of science, try to make yourself as attractive as possible to them. Say some flattering things. Flirt, if you know how. Show some enthusiasm. Help them to get you to get them off.”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, took one last sip of his coffee, and then slipped out of the booth, down stairs, around the corner and to door to the isolation room. He walked confidently in and closed the door behind him.

John looked up at him from the corner. His eyes were feverish with lust and there was a tremble that ran down his body. “Y-You!” he said.

“Hello again, Dr. Watson.”

“How, how did y—“ he winced and squirmed, his hands fisting.

“It was simply a matter of checking all the areas where homeless people camp out. When I offered you the chance to live with me and be my assistant, I really didn’t expect you to hide. I was rather put out. Well, water under the bridge, as Cave Johnson would say. You might reconsider the offer after your stint as a volunteer. If not, I know where to find you.”

“I — don’t — please.” His eyes raked over Sherlock with desperation. Then suddenly he tore the gown from his body and writhed invitingly. “Please, I need.”

Sherlock smiled. “Far be it from me to keep you waiting, John. I’m not the kind to string a person out for weeks and make them chase me down, lure me into a van and offer me up as an experiment, just to get my attention. I’m just not that kind of a cock-tease.” He pulled down his zip. “Come and get it.”

As John crawled over and buried his face against Sherlock’s groin, licking and sucking as if his life depended on it. Sherlock gently ran his hand over the short hair and revelled in the pleasure of an successful experiment.

Science was grand.

**Author's Note:**

> FUN FACT: The U.S. military did look into the idea of a [Gay Bomb](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_bomb) but as far as I know, they didn't find a feasible way of making one. Of course, they didn't have Aperture Science working for them.


End file.
